


A History of Cartographers [+podfic]

by picascribit



Series: A Conspiracy of Cartographers [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Arranged Marriage, Babies, Black Character(s), Canon Compliant, Childbirth, Children, Domestic Violence, F/M, Family, Foreshadowing, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Misogyny, Marriage, Muggles, Not Pottermore Compliant, POC James Potter, POV Female Character, Parent Death, Parenthood, Podfic, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes, Poverty, Pre-Canon, Pre-Marauders' Era, Pregnancy, Prostitution, Pureblood Culture, Strangulation, Teen Pregnancy, Terminal Illnesses, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picascribit/pseuds/picascribit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1958-1966: Remus, Sirius, James, Lily, Peter, Severus. Six children from six very different families. Twelve parents who only exist between the lines of canon, but who were instrumental in shaping the characters we love, and the story as we know it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Almira Pettigrew - March 1958

**Author's Note:**

> All of the parent characters in this fic (apart from Sirius's parents and Snape's parents, who are mentioned by name and at least somewhat described in canon) are my own creations. Most of these characters were created and developed before their Pottermore counterparts. I hardly ever use info from Pottermore in my fic.
> 
> Edited and Expanded July 2014.
> 
>  **Podfic**  
>  **Duration:** 44 min 28 sec  
>  **Size:** 40.7 MB  
>  **Download:** [zipfile of mp3s @ Mediafire](http://www.mediafire.com/download/gtlcam1w7x7kff7/A_History_Of_Cartographers.zip)  
> 

It did not matter how hard Almira Perkins tried; she had not been able to save any of them. After their parents' deaths, she had done her best to raise her younger siblings. She married, too young, to a man with a good job, in order to provide them with a stable home life. Instead, he beat her and took away her wand. He sneered at her brother Constantine, calling him by his birth name, Constance, saying he could never be a "real" boy. He led their baby sister, Delilah, over to the side of Grindelwald, and ultimately, to her death. He was tried, found guilty of crimes against Muggles and Muggleborn wizards, and died in Azkaban. 

Almira was a failure as a wife, unable to keep her husband happy, or on the path of righteousness. She was a failure as a mother, allowing her younger siblings to be ill-treated. She was a failure as a witch. She should have been able to stop it. 

Shame and self-loathing ate at her. She was sure the Ministry was still watching them, waiting for some sign that they had been of Grindelwald's camp, too. She trusted no one, not even herself -- no one but Constantine, and Constantine would not stay with her. He had his own life, his own friends. He would not spend his youth keeping company with a sister who had become a virtual shut-in. 

"How can you trust them, after everything we've been through?" she demanded. "They're not your family." 

"They're my friends," he told her for the hundredth time. "I would trust them with my life." 

He seemed determined to convince her. The next time he invited her to supper at his flat, she discovered they were not dining alone. 

"Mira, this is Pedanius Pettigrew," he introduced the short, pear-shaped young man with the cheerful face and wide blue eyes. "Dany, my sister, Almira Perkins." 

Almira muttered the expected pleasantries, shooting her brother a narrow look. 

Constantine had chosen well, however. Pettigrew was charming and soft-spoken, witty and kind-hearted. He was present again, the next time she dined with her brother, and the time after that. When she invited Constantine to tea at her own flat, he asked if Pettigrew might join them. 

"You seem to spend all your time with him these days," she commented approvingly in the kitchen after tea. "It must be getting serious." 

Constantine laughed. "Oh, no! Dany and I aren't together. It's _you_ he fancies, Sis." 

"Me?" she gasped. "Why, he must be ten years younger than me if he's a day!" 

"It doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you," said a voice from the doorway. 

Almira blushed, looking the man over in a new light. Her first marriage had brought her nothing but grief, and she had never thought to wed again. But this man .... She had grown fond of him, in spite of herself, over the past weeks. Constantine trusted him, and he treated them both with kindness and respect. She could not imagine him raising his voice against another person, let alone his hand. 

The next time Pedanius Pettigrew came over for tea, Constantine was not invited.


	2. Rose Evans - June 1959

Rose was not her real name. She had left that behind with everything else when she ran away from the base and her father's cruelty, her mother's indifference. She learned to copy the accents of the other children, bought a train ticket to London, and disappeared. For a while, she lived on the streets, trading her body for the money men gave her, because it meant surviving for another day. 

When the truant officers took her, she refused to tell them who she was or where she came from. They sent her to Wool's Home for Children. That was where she met Harry Evans. His parents were dead. She told him hers were, too. He told her that her green eyes were pretty. She said she liked his red hair. 

She was barely sixteen when she fell pregnant. When she could hide it no longer, they fled Wool's together. Unable to marry because they were underage, and unable to obtain council housing because they were not married, they ended up in Yorkshire, sharing communal living space in a converted warehouse with a dozen other people who had nowhere else to go. Petunia Wren Evans was born there. Harry surprised Rose with a silver ring that day, promising that they would marry as soon as they were old enough. 

Harry worked as a labourer, paving roads. Rose helped prepare communal meals, and watched the children while the other parents worked. They saved every penny and counted the days until Harry's eighteenth birthday. At night they fell, exhausted, onto the mattress they shared, curling around one another and the baby for warmth and comfort. That was the way life was for the first two years. It was cold in the winter, and in the summer -- even now, in early June -- it was hot and stuffy. 

Rose squirmed onto her back, trying to get comfortable. The heat was not the only thing that kept her wakeful. _Two weeks late._ It was still too soon to be sure. Her movements woke Petunia, who began to whimper. 

" _Shhh_ , baby," murmured Rose. "Let's not wake Daddy." 

"Daddy's awake," said Harry. "It's too hot for sleep." 

"It will be hotter soon," Rose sighed. She was already dreading it. 

"Dwelling on it does no good. Tell me about today, instead." 

"Nothing much happened," she shrugged. "Becky says there's a Nuclear Disarmament demonstration next week. Will you come with us?" 

"If I can get off work." 

"Petty come," said Petunia. 

"Yes, Petty can come, too," Rose smiled. 

That seemed to satisfy the toddler. Her eyelids were already drooping. 

"How many more days?" asked Harry. He asked the same question every night, though he probably knew the answer as well as she did. She was better at keeping track of numbers and sums, though. 

"Ninety-one," she sighed. It was exciting that the number was now less than one hundred, but a long, hot summer stretched between them and September. "Then however long the waiting list for housing is." 

"We'll have Christmas dinner at our own table," he promised her, "with all the trimmings." 

"I wish it could be sooner." If she was right, and if she had counted correctly, she would be nearing her ninth month by Christmas. It was too early to worry Harry about it, though. He needed his sleep. He had another long day ahead of him tomorrow. Another week, and then she would tell him. She found his hand in the darkness and squeezed it. "Tell me a story." 

She loved his stories, full of magic and adventure and a surprising number of clever, resourceful princesses with beautiful green eyes. 

He laced his fingers through hers. "Once upon a time there was a wizard ...."


	3. Eleanor Potter - July 1959

It was a good life, Ellie Potter often told herself. She had a husband she loved dearly. They shared a beautiful home in the village where he had grown up, surrounded by a lively garden to which Ellie devoted much of her time. Her husband's job, working as an Auror for the Ministry of Magic, was more dangerous than she would have liked, but these days there were not nearly as many Dark witches and wizards to contend with as there had been fifteen years before, when Ellie and Joe had been newlyweds. It was a peaceful life, and she was content. 

The only thing missing was a child. 

The early years of their marriage had been filled with a monthly round of hope followed by disappointment, but now, almost eighteen years later, she had resigned herself to childlessness. She was past forty now, and her husband nearing fifty. They never even talked about it anymore. 

It was a hot summer. At first, Ellie thought it was only the heat getting to her, making her feel tired and run-down. The bloating in her belly and tenderness of her breasts, she wrote off to her monthlies, coming on a week or two later than usual. 

But that did not seem quite right. After four decades living in her body, she knew it well. This was something new. _The menopause,_ she realised. She made an appointment with a healer to find out what other changes she could expect, and if she shed a few tears over the passing of her limited fertility, well, there was no shame in that. 

When the healer showed her the test results, she shook her head. "That can't be right. You must have mixed mine up with someone else's." 

"There's no mistake, Mrs Potter," said the healer. "Shall I schedule you an appointment with a midwife for next month to see how you're coming along?" 

Feeling dazed, and not knowing what else to do, she nodded. 

Ellie barely noticed the trip home. She spent the afternoon sitting on the sofa, worrying a handkerchief between her dark hands and thinking, _It can't be,_ and, _Why now?_

When green flames crackled into life in the fireplace and her husband spun out onto the hearth rug, Ellie leapt to her feet, but she did not go to him. 

"Ellie?" he said, taking in the look on her face and the rumpled handkerchief clenched between her fists. 

"Joe --" she said helplessly. "Joe, I --" 

The keen-eyed Auror whom she loved so well looked her over from head to foot, puzzlement creasing his brow. She had seen that look on his face many times before as he sorted through clues and mysteries. _Figure it out,_ she begged him silently. _I won't believe it until you say it._

Joe Potter's blue eyes widened. His jaw dropped and his brows shot up into his disordered hairline. In two strides, he was with her, enveloping her in a bear hug. 

"I'm going to be a dad!" he said, delighted.


	4. Eileen Snape - January 1960

Eileen Prince had thought marrying a Muggle was her ticket to freedom. She would be the one with power. The one in control. Her cruel father and imperious mother, always disappointed in her substandard performance at magic, would disown her, and she need never concern herself with their expectations again. That part, at least, had happened. 

The Muggle she chose was a charming dark-haired man. Tobias Snape. Eileen was not attractive. She was skinny and sullen, with heavy brows and a long face. Lacking the skill to brew a love potion, she instead worked a Glamour charm, making herself appear prettier than she was, and used an array of subtle hexes to drive away any women who looked twice at her man. 

Tobias was bewildered. He did not understand why every woman he smiled at avoided him. But Eileen was there, sympathetic, pretty enough, and willing to let him do more or less as he pleased with her. 

Their wedding day was the high point of Eileen's life. She had triumphed, winning herself a handsome husband through skill and cunning, and shrugging off her parents' tyranny once and for all. For the first time, she felt powerful. 

The feeling had not lasted long. Their marriage was only weeks old when Tobias discovered his wife's secret. He raged at her, screaming and ranting. She had deceived him, he howled, trapping him into marriage under false pretenses. When she dared to draw her wand, he struck her. 

"Don't try your tricks on me, _witch_." 

The way he spat the word shocked her more than the blow. She had never heard it spoken in such a tone before. That was when Eileen realised she had left the world she knew behind for one that was alien, hostile. She had exchanged one hell for another. 

She tried to use magic to fix things -- to bring back the charming man who had so enthralled her -- but he always guessed her game, and punished her for it. She wanted to hate him, but she could not. She longed for him to look at her the way he looked at other women who captured his attention without magic, without trying. 

She tried to use magic to please him, taking care of every household task, catering to his every whim. Sometimes that seemed to please him. When she did everything for him, he seemed more inclined towards kindness. It was only when she failed that he grew angry. 

"I can't just conjure up gold or food out of nothing," she tried to tell him. 

He did not believe her. He thought she was lying, holding out on him. 

When he fell ill, he decided she was poisoning him, and threw away her Potions ingredients. They had only been for a contraceptive potion. Eileen knew nothing of Muggle birth control methods. Cut off from the magical world, there was no one who could help her put a stop to her unwanted pregnancy. 

The child was born on a dark, cold day. No one came to see her, not even her husband. There were no healers with potions to ease the pain, no midwives; only the strange cold sterility of the Muggle hospital, and the strangers who worked there, and the tiny dark-haired stranger who lay against her breast. She looked into its sleeping face and felt nothing. 

What was she meant to do with it? Feed it? Love it? Nurture it? The word _mother_ floated across her thoughts, but it felt wrong. That was never her. If she were not so weak, she would stand up and walk out of this place, leaving it behind. She had nothing to give to a creature more helpless and pitiful than herself. Nothing but magic. 

She looked thoughtfully at the small bundle in her arms. For all its father was a Muggle, the blood of the Prince line -- the line of a hundred great witches and wizards -- flowed in its veins. 

A smile touched the corner of Eileen's mouth, imagining the child grown strong, powerful. Tobias could never stand against both of them. Perhaps this child was her ticket to freedom.


	5. Sylvia Lupin - December 1960

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note for clarity: The Lupin family changed their surname to Lupin, which was Remus's maternal grandmother's maiden name, after Remus was bitten, when the family went into hiding in the Muggle world. Before that time, the family's surname was Lyon.

The Ministry of Magic Christmas Gala was the biggest event of the season. Everyone who was anyone was invited, as well as every member of the Ministry staff. Sylvia Lyon felt more than a little overwhelmed, but her husband Marcellus, a junior member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, had insisted that it was time she had a real taste of the magical world. 

Sylvia was a Muggle -- the word still sounded strange to her -- and until she and Marcellus had become engaged three years before, she had believed that magic was a thing of imagination and fairy tales. But now, as her young husband escorted her into the elaborately-decorated hall, it was all around her, singing from the rafters and twinkling from the branches of dozens of fir trees. 

"I'm just going to get us some drinks," Marcellus said before abandoning her in a sea of strangers. 

Some of the strangers were very strange indeed, with their unusual clothing and wands. One woman even appeared to have a stuffed buzzard perched atop her hat. Nervously hefting her squirming bundle onto her shoulder, Sylvia looked around desperately for anyone remotely normal looking. Her eyes lit on a young dark-haired woman who also held an infant. Common ground. 

"How old is yours?" she asked, the age-old conversation opener of mothers meeting for the first time. 

The young woman laughed. "He's six months, but he isn't mine. I'm only the nanny." She turned her own bundle so that Sylvia could see a cap of dark fluff and a face red from fussing. "Normally, I wouldn't even be here, but you know how these high-society types are about having their heirs _seen_." 

"Remus is nine months," Sylvia said proudly, presenting her son. "Our first." 

Unlike the other boy, Remus was a happy baby. He cooed and drooled and reached his chubby hands towards the strangers. 

The black-haired baby stopped fussing and regarded Remus and his mother with large, grey eyes. The nanny sighed in relief. 

"That's the first time he's stopped squirming all day!" she said, smiling, as Remus's fat little hand clutched the sleeve of her charge's gown. 

"Making friends?" asked Marcellus, returning with the drinks and a smile. "Wonderful! We've been hoping to start making play dates for Remus." 

" _Petronella!_ " cried a shocked voice. They turned to see a tall, sour-faced woman striding towards them. "What have I told you about exposing him to riffraff? Do you _want_ to be dismissed?" 

The young nanny hung her head, stepping away from the Lyons. "No, Mrs Black," she murmured. 

"Come along," the woman said tartly. "I want the Minister for Magic to see him." 

She turned and strode away, the nanny trailing meekly in her wake. The wide grey eyes of the infant she carried stared back at them over her shoulder until they disappeared into the crowd. 

Remus began to fuss.


	6. Walburga Black - November 1961

Walburga Black gave the midwife a suspicious look, but swallowed the potion. The woman said she was pure-blood, though Walburga doubted it. It had been hard enough to find a midwife who did not admit to being half-blood, or even Muggleborn -- as if such people knew the first thing about Wizarding medicine. 

She closed her eyes as the potion took effect on her exhausted body. The aches in her belly, between her legs, and in her swollen breasts eased, and she sighed with relief. By tomorrow, she would be back to normal. Tomorrow, there would be another potion which would permanently close down the operations of her womb. After that, she would no longer be subject to the more distasteful and undignified aspects of womanhood. 

Walburga had done her duty, providing "an heir and a spare", as the expression went, for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Her husband had kept to her bed for the agonisingly long time it had taken for her to conceive seven times, and birth two healthy male infants, though Orion Black had taken no joy in the task. Walburga had not minded the act of making heirs -- the husband her parents had selected for her was a handsome man who treated her gently -- but she knew he found little pleasure in the beds of women. Still, so long as he was discreet about his perversions, she could ignore them. 

"Are you well, Mrs Black?" the midwife asked. 

Walburga opened her eyes. "Tolerable. Let me see him. And then you may send the house-elf to summon Mr Black." 

The girl sitting silently in the corner of the master bedroom uncurled from the armchair. Eyes downcast, she handed the bundle in her arms to Walburga. Walburga looked the girl over disdainfully. The disgraced daughter of a lesser house, she had barely sat her OWLs before some half-blood had fathered a child on her. Her parents had not permitted her to keep it. She would do well enough for a wet-nurse, Walburga supposed. They would find a more suitable nanny once the boy was weaned. 

As she beheld the red face of her newborn son, a smile bloomed on Walburga's lips. Exhausted from the effort of birth, the baby slept. A shock of black hair stood up on the crown of his small head. She thought that he looked a bit like her. 

With a soft tap at the door, her husband entered, carrying seventeen-month-old Sirius. The midwife and wet-nurse slipped quietly out into the hallway to give the family some privacy. 

"Mu-ther," said the toddler, holding out his arms to her. 

"Come see him," she said. "Come see your brother." 

Orion deposited Sirius on the bed, and he crawled over, face screwed up in the frown he often wore when he was trying very hard to understand something. He reached out tentatively to touch the baby's tiny fingers, then looked up at his mother. 

"See-wee-us bwuvver?" he asked, black-fringed grey eyes round. His father's eyes. 

"His name is Regulus," said Orion. "Can you say that, Son?" 

Sirius looked at the baby again. "Regs-us," he said. "Bwuvver." 

A fierce glow of pride welled up in Walburga's chest. Her sons were perfect and beautiful -- everything the heirs of an ancient pure-blood house should be. One day, they would be great men -- leaders among wizards -- a credit to their name. Until then, she would do everything in her power to give them the life and upbringing to which they were entitled by right of blood.


	7. Harlow Evans - September 1962

Harry Evans was content, which was not something he had ever thought he would be. After his father's death in the Second World War, and his mother's subsequent suicide, Harry had grown up at Wool's Home for Children in London. He could barely remember his parents. He had no other family. 

When he met Rose, he had fallen in love with her determination and optimism. She believed in a better life, and she included him in her plans, taking him with her when she left Wool's, finding them a place to live in those chancy early years, working hard and never giving up. There were days, even then, when Harry had felt like the luckiest man alive. 

Now, that was all behind them, and Harry was sure of his good fortune. Rose was his wife. They had two wonderful daughters. Harry had a decent job. Their council flat was beginning to feel a little small, but Harry had every hope that, in a year's time, they would have enough savings to begin looking for a home of their own. Perhaps best of all, Harry could now afford to take a day off from work every now and then to spend with his family, or on his other passion: writing. 

"See the numbers, Lily-Flower?" he said. "Can you help Daddy put the pages in order?" 

Lily was not quite three, but she had her mother's gift for sums and figures, and knew all her numbers up to twenty already. They sat on the floor of the bedroom, the stack of typewritten pages between them. Rose had surprised Harry with the old typewriter two weeks before, for his twenty-first birthday. Lily read off the digits and handed the pages to her father, one by one. 

"You remember the story you and Petty helped Daddy make? With the dragon princesses who grant wishes?" 

Lily nodded vigorously. "One called Lee-lee." 

Harry grinned. "That's right. One of them was named Lily. Well, Daddy is typing up that whole story, and we're going to see if we can't get it turned into a real book." 

Lily's green eyes widened. "Like Peeta Ravit?" 

"Exactly like Peter Rabbit," affirmed her father. 

Noticing the plaster that he had put on her scraped knee the previous evening was coming loose, Harry reached for it. "Here, Lily-Flower. We'll get you a fresh one if you need it." 

He was surprised to find that he could not see the scrape any longer. It had looked very red and raw when she had fallen on the pavement. Lily had cried for long minutes. 

"Looks like you're all better, Sweetie," he said, smiling. 

Lily nodded. "I fix it, Daddy." 

"I'm glad to hear it." Harry bent to kiss the site of the injury. 

When he sat back, his elbow caught the leg of the wobbly table he used for a writing desk. A mug, perched too close to the edge, tumbled off, spilling cold tea all over the pile of neatly-typed pages. 

"Oh!" cried Harry, distressed. He glanced around frantically for anything that might be used to sop up the mess. Nothing. Nothing that would not be badly stained by the tea, now soaking into the pages, in any case. 

"I fix it, Daddy." 

Lily reached out her small hands and laid them flat on the stack of damp paper. Immediately, the liquid vanished. Not even a dark stain was left behind. Only the ruffled look of once-wet paper. 

Lily picked up the mug and held it out to her father. 

He stared at her. 

"How did you do that, Lily-Flower?"


	8. Pedanius Pettigrew - May 1963

Green thumbs ran in Pedanius Pettigrew's family. Not literally green; there was no fairy blood in his line. He just loved plants more than most things. Not, however, more than his wife, and certainly not more than his son. Three-year-old Peter was his pride and joy. The boy's boldness and eagerness to learn were a constant source of delight to his father. 

"Come look at this, Pete," he said, when he saw wide blue eyes peering around the greenhouse door. 

The little boy hurried over, and his father swept him into his lap. 

"This one is called screechsnap," he explained. "You can touch it, Pete. It won't hurt you." 

Peter stuck his small hands in amongst the greenery, giggling as the fronds twined around his fingers, making plaintive squeaking sounds. "It tickles, Papa!" 

Pedanius grinned. "Why don't you fetch the seedlings from the window box, and help me water them?" 

Always eager to help, Peter hopped down and scampered to the window. He was just reaching for a seedling when a cry of dismay came from the doorway. 

" _No_ , Petey! Get away from there!" His mother snatched the little boy up, clasping him to her bosom. "What were you thinking, Dany? He might have fallen!" 

Pedanius glanced at the soft grass, barely three feet below the windowsill, and sighed. He loved Almira dearly, but she worried about everything. She treated Peter as if he were made of glass, insisting that everything was too dangerous or difficult for him. 

The little boy peered over his mother's shoulder, lip trembling. 

"He was perfectly all right, Mira," Pedanius said soothingly. "I was right here, watching him." 

Almira pursed her lips. "Even so, I don't like him coming in here. Some of these plants aren't safe." 

"I'm teaching him which ones to be careful of," he promised. "Anything that might be dangerous, I keep well out of his reach." 

"You can't expect him to understand things like that at his age," objected his wife. 

"That's foolishness, Mira," Pedanius said. "Pete's a clever lad. He can manage all sorts of things, if you only show him how. Discouraging him sets a bad example. I don't want him thinking he's less capable than he is." 

His wife looked away. She hated confrontation. "I just came to tell you, a new plant's arrived." 

A smile of surprised delight lit Pedanius's face. "I wasn't expecting anything." 

He hurried through the doorway into the main house, Almira trailing after him, still carrying Peter. Kneeling in the entryway, he gently unwrapped the strips of cloth that bound the plant's stems, protecting them during transport. The vines uncurled, stretching lazily. 

"What kind is it, Papa?" asked Peter. 

Pedanius frowned. "It looks like Devil's Snare, but the leaves are darker. I've never seen this strain before." 

"Devil's Snare?" said Almira sharply. "That sounds dangerous." 

"You just have to know how to handle it," Pedanius assured her. "Besides, this one looks too young to harm a kneazle kit. I wonder who sent --?" 

A whiplike vine unfurled from the plant and wrapped itself around his throat, pulling tight. 

_Relax,_ he told himself automatically. If he relaxed, it would let go. But it didn't. Instead, it grew tighter, cutting off his air. _Fire._ Where was his wand? Still in the greenhouse. 

_Fire,_ he mouthed at his shrieking wife and son, yanking at the vine that bound him. It was tough and would not break. Black spots swam before his eyes and blood pounded in his ears. Almira and Peter were still screaming, but the sound seemed to come from a long way off. They looked so frightened. 

_Don't be afraid,_ he tried to tell them. _I don't want you to ever be afraid ...._


	9. Tobias Snape - October 1963

"C'mon. Let's get this thing on you," Tobias Snape said gruffly. 

He picked up his small son's Halloween costume and turned it over in his hands. He was not sure what a grindylow was meant to be, and the shapeless garment did little to enlighten him. He privately suspected his wife had made the thing up, but he did not really care. 

"Come over here, Russ," he repeated when the child did not move. 

He refused to call the boy by his given name. What had the woman been thinking, giving him a damned ridiculous name like Severus? It sounded snooty to Tobias's ears. But then, his wife was a snob. Still, he was in a rare good mood this evening. They were going to the fancy dress party at the Cokeworth community center. There would be free booze, and probably one or two attractive women. It might be a good night. 

Reluctantly, his son slid off the bed and approached Tobias. He stood still and silent as his father stuffed his skinny arms down the sleeves, then turned him to fasten the ties in the back. His mother had made a cap to go with the costume, and Tobias tugged it over the boy's head, securing it under his chin, then sat back to judge the effect. 

"You look like a damn girl in a frock and a bonnet," he scowled. "I suppose it's too late to put something else together." 

Severus's lip trembled, and his father's frown deepened. "It's nothing to bloody cry about," he snapped. 

But it was too late. In seconds, the child was wailing. His mother came into the room and hovered in the doorway. 

"What's the matter?" she asked. 

"How should I know?" Tobias growled. "He cries like a fucking girl all the goddamn time. He looks like one, too, in that bloody bonnet." 

He reached over and yanked the thing off the boy's head, ripping some of his hair out in the process. There was a brilliant flash of light, and searing pain blazed across Tobias's chest. He gave a startled cry. The acrid scent of burning hair filled the air. 

When his vision cleared, there was a large hole burnt straight through his best shirt, exposing a bare, reddened expanse of his chest. 

With a roar, Tobias rounded on his wife, grabbing her by the hair. 

"Did you do that, _witch_?" he demanded, rage masking his fear at the sudden, unexpected attack. She had not tried anything like that in years. 

"No!" she cried. "No, I didn't. I swear!" 

He shoved her away from him and turned back to look at the boy staring up at him, wide-eyed and fearful. 

" _You_ ," he hissed. "You did it, didn't you?" 

Tobias's hand flashed out, catching the child on the side of the head and knocking him to the floor. 

"You're a freak, just like your mother. I should have known," he spat. "If you ever try a thing like that on me again, I'll make you wish you'd never been born. D'you understand me?" 

The boy said nothing. He looked too frightened to cry. Wetness soaked through the front of his costume, spreading in a wide stain. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" his father roared. He glared at his wife, still cowering in the corner. "Your freak son's pissed himself. Get him cleaned up. We leave in ten minutes. I have to change my shirt." 

He stormed to his own room, and stood in front of the wardrobe shaking, breathing hard as the fear threatened to choke him. They both had it. Those weird abilities. He would have to be on his guard more than ever now. If they ever banded together -- Tobias would just have to ensure that they were both too frightened to even think about using their powers against him.


	10. Joseph Potter - August 1964

Neither the early start, nor the light morning mist could put a damper on the Potter family's spirits. By the time they found their seats, the sun was beginning to peek through the clouds, promising excellent weather for the match. 

"It's not the top box," said Joe Potter, "but they're decent seats." 

"They're very good," his wife agreed. "Here, Jamie, you've got a smudge on your nose." 

"Thanks for the ticket, Sir," said Ambrose Brown. "It was good of you to invite me." 

"Nonsense, lad," Joe waved away his thanks. "Consider it my congratulations on your qualification. You're an Auror now. And it's 'Joe', not 'Sir'. We're partners, aren't we?" 

"Yes, Sir -- Joe." The young man grinned. "My little cousin Gertie was so jealous when she heard I was coming to the World Cup. She's wild about Quidditch." 

"Will it start soon, Papa?" asked four-year-old James, peering over the railing at the pitch far below for any sign of activity. 

"In a few minutes," said Joe, ruffling his son's cloud of black hair. "Has your mother explained the rules yet?" 

James nodded vigorously. "Mama plays Quidditch," he told Ambrose. 

"Mama _played_ Quidditch," Ellie Potter corrected with a smile. "I was Seeker for Gryffindor at school," she explained to the young Auror. 

"Papa, do _you_ play Quidditch?" James asked. 

Joe laughed. "Not me, Son. I prefer to keep my feet on the ground." 

"Welcome to the 1964 Quidditch World Cup!" an amplified voice rang out over the stadium. "England is proud to host finalists Morocco and Lithuania in this year's competition. And now, without further ado ...." 

James squealed and clapped as the players zoomed onto the pitch, leaning halfway over the railing. Joe smiled indulgently, keeping a firm grip on the back of his son's robes. The little boy had no understanding of competitive sports yet, but he watched with round-eyed delight as the players looped and raced through the air on their broomsticks, shrieking and cheering whenever either team scored a goal. 

Periodically, his wife leapt to her feet, screaming her lungs out for Morocco, while Brown gave a shout every time one of Lithuania's Chasers put the Quaffle through a hoop. 

Joe enjoyed Quidditch, too, but the only team he cared about was the Falmouth Falcons. Today, he was happy just to share in his family's joy, and the pleasure of seeing a match well played by some of the finest athletes in the Wizarding world. As he looked from his small son, to his bright-eyed wife, to the partner he had trained for the last three years, and who had become like another son to him, Joe Potter felt truly blessed. 

The match was spectacular. Morocco took the Cup in a breathless capture of the Snitch from under the nose of Lithuania's Seeker, scraping them a bare ten point win that brought the screaming crowds to their feet. 

"I wanna play Quidditch!" James declared, skipping around his parents. "Summa them were brown like me an' Mama an' Ambrose! Can I havva broom?" 

Joe laughed. "Changed your mind about being an Auror, have you?" He did not mind. Grindelwald's uprising was almost twenty years past, and the Auror Office had little to do these days, beyond investigating a recent uptick in Britain's werewolf population. 

"I wanna be a _Quidditch_ Auror!" shouted James. 

"You can be whatever you want, Son," Joe told him. "With any luck, by the time you're grown, we won't even need Aurors anymore, and everyone will just play Quidditch all the time."


	11. Orion Black - February 1965

"Stand up straight," muttered Orion Black. "Say 'good day, sir' or 'ma'am' to anyone who greets you, but nothing more. Understand? This is a wake, not a _soirée_." 

"Yes, Father." The two small boys walked a little taller, self-conscious in their black dress robes. 

Orion noted with a frown that Regulus held Sirius's hand. "A man of the House of Black stands on his own. Now, what do you say when you see your Grandfather Arcturus?" 

Sirius dropped his brother's hand and parroted, "I am sorry for your loss, Grandfather." 

"What did Grandfather lose?" Regulus asked. 

"His sister," Orion reminded him. "Your Great-Aunt Lycoris." 

"Oh," said Regulus. "Did he look for her?" 

"She's _dead_ , Regs," Sirius told him disdainfully. "Like that doxy you found in the parlour." 

"Guard your tongue, Sirius," his father said sharply. "This is no place for such unbecoming chatter." 

Sirius made no apology, but said nothing more as they entered the hall, joining the subdued hubbub within. Though Orion frequently had cause to discipline his heir, he was secretly pleased by Sirius's independence. At nearly five, he was already shaping up to be a handsome, charming lad. Orion was confident there would be no shortage of suitable brides offered for him. Regulus had more of his mother's looks. He was biddable and easily cowed in a way that Orion found troubling, but he was only three. Perhaps he would grow out of it. 

The wake was a small affair. Lycoris Black had been a private woman, never married. Many people had found her brusque manner off-putting. Even so, more friends than family had turned out to mourn her. 

Orion nodded to his sister, Lucretia, who stood with her husband, Ignatius Prewett, and her three step-children. The eldest was a girl with red hair and freckles. Too old to make a match for Sirius, Orion decided. 

"Orion," said a pleasant voice, "and my young nephews!" 

"Uncle!" cried Sirius as Alphard Black crouched to receive the boys' embraces. 

"Alphard," Orion greeted his wife's brother. "I hadn't thought to see you here. Were you and Aunt Lycoris close?" 

Alphard smiled. "Closer than some. Is my sister here?" 

"She's indisposed," Orion lied. Walburga had strong opinions about the company Lycoris had kept, refusing to mix with "those kinds of people" even for a wake. Her words had stung. No doubt she meant them to. Orion felt that, so long as a person kept their affairs private, what they did behind closed doors was no one's business but their own. 

"Then it's good that I'm here representing our branch," said Alphard. 

"Yes, quite," Orion agreed, looking around. "Where have my sons got to?" 

The boys had found the buffet table. Regulus had biscuit crumbs all down his dress robes, and Sirius was stuffing his mouth with sausage rolls. Orion glowered, but Alphard forestalled him. 

"Let's leave some for the other guests, lads." He plucked up a napkin and began brushing them off. 

"Sorry, Uncle." Sirius hung his head. Regulus glanced fearfully at his father. 

Orion frowned. "That was unseemly. Do not do it again." 

Unlike Alphard, Orion had no gift nor patience for managing children. He hoped he and his sons would understand one another better when they became men -- if he lived long enough to see them grow into their promise. 

The healers at St. Mungo's had told Orion there was nothing they could do to fix his heart. He might have a year or ten or twenty. But perhaps that did not matter. He had already accomplished the great work of his life. He had two sons any father would be proud of. They would be great men -- a credit to their blood -- and his grandsons after them. The future of his family was secure.


	12. Marcellus Lupin - April 1966

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after the first chapter of A Conspiracy of Cartographers, Year One, but can be read out of order.

"He's asleep" whispered Marcellus Lyon, quietly closing his son's bedroom door. 

His wife made no reply. She stood staring at a photo on the mantlepiece of the four of them, smiling, happy. She had not spoken since they brought Remus home from the Ministry, bandaged and wrapped in a blanket. Not since he told her that he had lost his job. 

"Syl?" He moved to touch her arm. She flinched away. Marcellus let his hands fall to his sides, as useless as the rest of him. 

"I never asked for any of it to be real." Her voice was quiet, toneless. "Wizards. Magic. Werewolves. I just wanted a normal life. To marry someone I loved. To have healthy children. To watch them grow. That was magic enough for me." 

"I know. I'm sorry." 

"You're a _wizard_ , Marc," she spat the accusation. "You should have been able to protect him. You couldn't save your own son --" 

"I _did_ save him. If I hadn't cast the Patronus charm, Remus would be dead." 

"Well, he's not dead. He's _this_ ," she waved a hand at the Ministry pamphlets lying on the coffee table. "Can you fix him, Marc? Can magic make our son better?" 

"No." 

"You should've told me. If I'd known we were in danger --" Her voice broke. 

"There's nothing you could have done, Syl," he said gently. 

"I could have taken them away. Somewhere he couldn't find them. France. Or America." 

"I did tell you Greyback was dangerous," said Marcellus. "That he threatened me." Sylvia had not taken the threats seriously, though, and Marcellus had not pressed the point. She only half-believed in the magical world. 

His wife remained silent, contemptuous. 

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't want you to be afraid." 

"I'm not afraid," she snapped. "I'm furious. My son is a _werewolf_. The way those fools at that hospital and your Ministry treated him -- they hate him! He's _six_ , Marc. He's only a little boy. He doesn't understand what's happening to him. _I_ don't understand it." 

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Marcellus blinked back his own. He wanted to take her in his arms -- to console her -- to feel a moment's comfort. 

"We'll manage, Syl. We'll make it work." 

"How? You couldn't save him, and now you don't even have a job! How will we manage?" 

"I'll get another job." He spoke with more conviction than he felt. His only decent OWLs had been in Care of Magical Creatures and Charms, and now he was barred from working at the Ministry. A "conflict of interests", they called it. 

"What if he comes back?" she demanded. "Greyback? What if it's Natalie next time?" 

"I don't think he will." 

Disbelief twisted her mouth. "Thinking isn't good enough. I want to take them away. Somewhere safe." 

"Where?" 

She looked away. "Maybe it's better if you don't know." 

Another crack rent his already-shattered heart. "You're leaving me?" 

Sylvia hugged herself. "Don't make this harder than it has to be." 

"You can't --" 

The look she gave him was so sharp he winced. 

Marcellus closed his eyes. He was so very tired. "I meant -- I don't blame you for wanting to go -- to take Natalie. But, Syl, you can't take Remus with you. You won't be able to manage his condition alone. What if he harms you? Or Nat?" 

She hesitated. 

"Please, Syl," he begged, tears spilling over. "I'll do anything. We'll move. Change our names. Live like Muggles. He'll never find us. Remus needs both of us now. I can't do this without you." 

Sylvia bit her lip. "I have to get Natalie from the neighbours." 

When she was gone, Marcellus collapsed onto the sofa, shaking. His wife might leave him, but she would never leave Remus. For their son, she would stay. Perhaps someday she might even forgive him for what had happened, though Marcellus knew he would never forgive himself.


End file.
